Half Alive
by bloodonthepages
Summary: When Connelly wakes up in an abandoned hospital, he has no lucid memories of his past. All he remembers is his own name and random, mind-splitting scenes of violence. All he has are his clothes, a baseball bat…and claws…
1. Chapter 1

**Half Alive**

**Rated: **M

**Summary: **When Connelly wakes up in an abandoned hospital, he has no lucid memories of his past. All he remembers is his own name and random, mind-splitting scenes of violence. All he has are his clothes, a baseball bat…and claws…

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When he woke up, it was cold. So cold. He was lying on a metal gurney, or rather, a metal table on wheels, when he came to. It seemed to be mid-morning from the way the faint light was streaming through the small, dirty window, but Connelly didn't want to see. He instinctively turned away from the light, even though it didn't hurt his eyes. His leg and arm muscles ached, his torso felt sore. Connelly snarled in annoyance. The noise was angry and inhuman, and he froze in shock. Why did he just do that? How could he even make that sound? Groaning, he gently eased his foot off of the table and on to the floor. Yet he quickly retracted it, because the floor was not smooth and cold, as he has expected- it was sticky and warm, and it made the hair rise up on the back of his neck. He wanted to peer over the edge, yet he couldn't- the fear of the Unknown was too great, and he felt his muscles lock in place. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, and the metal groaned, causing small dents to be formed. He felt his nails snag on the underside, yet he didn't know how- they couldn't possibly be _that _long.

It was then that the smell hit him, somehow just registering on his still-awakening senses. It was pungent and metallic, sickeningly sweet. Finally daring to steal a quick glance over the edge, Connelly saw why- the floor was smeared with blood, creating whirlwind patterns and lines of a demented artist. Although a couple of days old, it still emitted a heavy stench; there must be gore and marrow mixed in there too, Connelly thought. The thought both repulsed and attracted him, and he was heavily confused and disgusted with himself for feeling the latter.

Yet he knew that he couldn't stay on the table forever; already his stomach was crying for food. He considered moving the table to cleaner ground by pushing against the wall, until he realized that the person –or thing- that caused the massacre in front of him might still be lurking around, and the squeaking gurney would cause attention. No, he would have to do things silently, which regrettably meant creeping across the bloodied floor.

Filled with revulsion, he lowered both aching feet onto the ground. The feeling beneath his feet was squishy and sticky and _wrong_, but he forced himself to continue. Each step became torture, for as the smell incased him he fell both a need to throw up, and strangely enough, to _lick it up_, to find more from which it came, and rip, and tear…but no. He shuddered at the thought, and suddenly, _did_ throw up, leaning against the wall for support, his vomit oddly dark and thick. He stared at it for a long moment. It was half digested, the same color as the blood on the floor.

()

Wandering the corridors of the hospital, it took a while to realize that the soft _click click click_ came from his own toenails hitting the stone floor. Or perhaps '_claws'_ was the correct word, for they seemed oddly curved and sharp. His fingernails, he quickly learned, were the same- although there was no way he could have known that at first.

_As he had been eager to get away from his own vomit, his pace had quickened, and he felt himself slip. His hand shot out, faster than it should have, to hold on to the wall, and as he steadied himself he saw that his nails were suddenly embedded into the plaster. Forcing them out, he saw that his nails were longer, sharper and curved- resembling a cat's claws. And like such claws, they shortened before his eyes, disappearing into his flesh- they were retractable. _

Not that the feature had really helped- he still had claws, albeit shorter-reaching ones. Still, it could be used as a hidden weapon if needed. And the top part, where the claw curved into a wicked scythe, couldn't be too hard to file down. None of these thoughts bothered Connelly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have claws on his fingers and toes. He found that thinking about them was oddly soothing, an anchor that he could hold onto. It was something that he knew about himself, and he didn't know much.

He was about to learn more.

He had decided a while ago that his hunger could wait. The foremost important thing to do right now was to find clothing and get the hell out of the hospital before whatever had caused the carnage around him came back for more. It was a gruesome sight- almost everything was overturned, windows were broken, and the halls were smattered with blood. He had seen a glimpse of a severed hand peeking out from behind a nurse's station, but turned away; he didn't feel like finding out what had happened to the rest. The entire building was silent, as if watching him, waiting for his next move. There were no people here, although if he were alone, he was not so sure- he had the oddest feeling that he was being watched, and when he passed certain dark, abandoned rooms, he couldn't help but feel that things were _noticing_.

He thought he heard a woman crying softly, surprised at himself when he quickly turned tail and ran; something in his gut told him to stay away from the crying things. It was only after he turned the corner that he slowed and stood up- he had been running on all fours without realizing it. His claws were once again extended, hinting that he was under extreme stress.

The boy studied them, flexing his fingers experimentally. This was the second time this had happened, and they probably wouldn't retract until he was fully relaxed. He crouched down and flexed his toes, wondering if they did the same thing. It would be cool if he were able to climb walls that way.

Suddenly curious, he looked around until he spotted some sort of cloth-like material- there, in the room directly across from him, he spotted an almost completely whole hospital curtain. With his senses on high alert, he entered the dark room. Avoiding a bed whose sheets couldn't possibly be stained with only one full body's worth of blood, he extended his right arm and brought it down into the curtain, slicing through it as though it were made of wet rice paper. He stared at his hand in amazement.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

A soft growling suddenly came from behind him, causing his nerves to stand up in red alert. He slowly turned around to face whatever had made the noise. What he saw forced him to let out a screech, so inhuman and loud that the thing that was about to attack him pause in alarm before quickly fleeing. Connelly felt his knees turn to jelly and he slowly sank to the floor, clutching what was left of the curtain for support. That was one of the things that had been watching him, he was sure, and he almost let out a whimper at the thought of it. To call it human would have been an insult to humanity as a whole, for although it had a human form, he could tell that it wasn't. It was extremely pale, almost gray, where blood wasn't staining its skin. Its jaw had hung open stupidly, and what appeared to be half-chewed meat had fallen out in drivels onto the floor. He didn't know why they weren't attacking him, (for if his senses were correct, there were a lot), but it seemed that as long as he didn't get too close, they wouldn't bother him.

The smell of the half-chewed, indigested meat was somehow was driving him insane. Saliva hung off of it in spools, yellow and thick, as the red chunks lay in a pool in the same-colored filth. Yet the _need to consume it_ was great, causing his stomach to clench and his jaw to tighten as his eyes remained fixed upon it. He swallowed, and slowly began crawling toward it on all fours, his claws causing small sounds compared to his heart, which was hammering wildly. Blood rushed to his head and all he saw was red, red like the blood around him, his mind blank save the command to consume. The room was cold and a shiver went down his spine through the thin hospital gown that covered him. His mouth opened wider than it should, his own drool spilling out of the corners, as he bent down and ripped into the once-human flesh.

What he tasted could only be described as ecstasy to him, like a bleeding woman eating a pound of milk chocolate. The juices ran down his throat, tangy and sweet; the meat was still warm, despite being in another's mouth. He tore at it, growling like starving dog, as his gown and face became painted in blood as his meal dripped from his mouth. Panting, he sat up, licking his lips.

His look of content quickly turned to panic, as his stomach recoiled and sought the exodus of such tainted flesh. He could feel his upper digestive organs pounding as he quickly stumbled into the room's adjoining bathroom, throwing up his just-eaten meal into the toilet. His tasted could certainly handle human flesh, but his stomach apparently could not. He felt a dull pain in his knees while on the cold floor from when he had quickly slammed them down, too intent in the bowl to worry about anything else at the time. Groaning softly, he gently eased himself back up.

Testing the knobs of the sink, he saw that the cold water still worked. Cupping his hands under the spout, he quickly splashed water on him face and wiped it away with his hands, glancing up at the mirror.

He did not look- at least, completely- human.

The first thing he noticed was his skin, which was pale- not gray, like the _thing_, but certainly pale, although he could see a hint of color under his skin. Blonde hair hung just above his eyes, sticking out on his head in messy, natural spikes. He noticed that the hair which hung closer to his face was darker, almost a metallic brown, and his immediate thought was that those locks had been permanently stained by blood. His eyes were a dark blue, almost purple, and the skin around them was puffy and pink, almost the reverse of the dark circles one would usually see. His face was thin, skin almost stretched across it, with clearly defined cheekbones. Yet it was his mouth that truly scared him.

Daring to raise his blood-stained lips, he saw that his teeth were unusually sharp. Not like needles or razors, but certainly sharp, and unnaturally pointy. There seemed to be nothing wrong with his tongue, but he was afraid to find out what would happen if he accidently bit it.

Clutching the sides of the porcelain sink, trembling, he looked deep into his own eyes, as if hoping they could somehow tell him everything. The look on his face was of fear; more human than animalistic, the most human emotion he'd felt since waking up. Until then it had had an undertone of either numbness or impassiveness, as if he were _used_ to this, as if he already knew. Everything until now had been based on instinct; he knew no friends or family he should be worried about, he didn't even know where he _was._

_Who am I?_

"What am I?" he whispered.

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**AN: ** I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! More about Connelly will be hinted as the story progresses, and he just might run into some familiar characters…


	2. Chapter 2

**Second**

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It did not take long for Connelly to realize that this was more than just a hospital. The floor he had been on was in too much disarray for there to be a hope of clean clothes, so he had been forced to search on another. Opting to take the elevator – he didn't want to know what lurked in the stairwell- he was surprised to see that he was on the top floor, at least according to the buttons. He pressed the one that led to the first level basement, which, according to the sign on the side of the button panel, was where the laundry was done. He had been surprised to see that besides for the standard things one would expect to see listed in a hospital, such as 'LABS' and 'LOBBY', there were also different departments listed, such as one would find in a bureaucracy; in other words, a good portion of the building was office space. The was also a floor dedicated to WEAPON DEVELOPMENT, which Connelly decided would be a good idea to check out- he had managed to rip off a leg from a folding chair in case he ran into another _thing_, but he wasn't sure how long that would last him. If worse came to worse, he figured he could always use his claws.

Leaning against the wall of the elevator, Connelly fingered the side of his neck. While still examining himself in the mirror, he had noticed something black there, located right under his left ear. Craning his head sideways, he realized it was a tattoo- a serial number proclaiming him to be _7H84K_. There was also a small metal disk-like stud on the cartilage of his opposite ear; he hoped to God that had also been given to him. He didn't want to think he had been one of those jackasses who wore a single, shiny earring in their ear and a half open bright pink shirt who tried to prove they weren't gay for wearing said shirt and earring by partying hard and sleeping with a slew of women and being a general all around dumb asshole.

In truth, looking abnormal did not bother him so much. He considered it to be being born with a weapon attached to himself, and he still had his sanity- at least, he _thought_ he did, though the image of himself tearing away at the putrid human flesh was still fresh in his mind. In any case, he was certain he wasn't as affected as the other thing he saw. Hell, compared to them, he was fucking Bill Gates and George Clooney rolled into one. Brains _and _looks.

And in any case, what if there were no humans left?

It was certainly an unpleasant thought, and one he'd rather not dwell on. He had at first hoped to meet another in the hospital, but it quickly became apparent that everyone else was gone- they had either been killed and half eaten, if his observing skills were any good, or had fled. It was too bad; he had a lot of questions for the people who worked here. Although holding no personal memories, he understood what everything was; what objects were called, how an average life had been before, even culture trends. But besides for his name, he knew nothing about himself- where he lived, who his friends were, nothing. He hadn't even remembered what he looked like until the mirror. If he tried hard, the only thing that came up were emotions and feelings- anger, at times. Fear. Pain. Confusion- though that quickly faded, replaced by something more potent; hunger. Hunger and the urge to destroy. And yet even through that there had been an undertone of- could it be…loneliness?

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit, concrete hallway. Connelly stepped through the doors, his weapon making a _clang_ as it hit the floor. A pair of eyes watched him from the shadows.

((()))

Besides for a huge, standard laundry room, there also appeared to be a sort of…_sterilization_ room connected to it. From the looks of it, metal hooks would dip the clothes in a vat of boiling water, or perhaps another chemical cleaning solution from the smell of it. The hooks and vats were not rusted, and there was even some excess liquid on the floor; it hadn't evaporated yet. The building had definitely been abandoned recently. There also seemed to be a miniature laboratory in a small, attached room with no door. Exploring further, the boy noticed that adjacent to the door hung a huge, metal rack that took up the entire wall. Sealed plastic bags lay neatly organized in piles on these shelves. There were tags on shelves in front of every pile, assumingly identifying what they were. Connelly did not recognize most of the things written on the labels, which, besides for some sort of proper scientific name or another, carried such titles as (_Witch), (Smoker), (Boomer), (Common), _and _(Hunter)._ Connelly did not know what the fucking hell that type of bullshit was supposed to mean, and so ignored it. He sorted through the different piles, unable to clearly see their contents. Picking one up warily, he did a double take when glancing at a strip of tape slapped carelessly on the middle of the bag- written on it was a serial number. Fingering the side of his neck thoughtfully, He now searched through the piles with a purpose, row by row, until finally finding the one with his written on it; _7H84K._

It was in the pile labeled _(Hunter)_.

Observing the bag carefully now, he finally determined that it was clothing, not human organs or something that would leap out and attack him if he released it. A single claw quickly reduced the plastic to shreds, and an outfit of clothing spilled out; a gray hoodie, though slightly torn, still looked both comfortable enough and wearable. There was also a pair of dark jeans, a pair of beat up sneakers, socks, boxers, and a midnight blue T-shirt that spelled _The Midnight Riders_ in gothic letters. Whoever they hell _they_ were.

Tearing off his hospital gown, he quickly dressed, hurriedly pulling up his pants and slipping the hoodie over his head. Wearing it somehow gave him a sense of security. He attempted to put on a sock, but decided it was useless- his hind claws ripped right through it. He settled for simply jamming his bare feet into the sneakers, although he probably didn't need them. The calluses on his feet were extremely thick. Satisfied, he was about to leave when something glimmered in the light and caught his eye.

Leaning closer, he saw that it was a small, pewter cross on a chain. It must have fallen out of the bag without him noticing. The design was simple, yet intricate- in the middle, where the sticks crossed, was a flat circle with a hole in the middle, resembling a flattened donut. Each of the four legs that came out from the circle was thin at first, but as it reached the end it bloomed outward. There were indents on each leg, filling up most of the space and following the lines as they curved out. Almost hesitant, the boy flipped it over to the back. What he read made it feel like it hurt for his heart to beat.

'_Love from all of us'_, it read.

He wanted to cry, but found that he couldn't.

((()))

Making preparations to leave, Connelly had already filched a med pack he had found lying on one of the tables. The weapon room, unfortunately, needed some sort of card authorization, but he had found a sturdy metal baseball bat lying next to one of the corpses. It would do its job better than the chair leg, in any case. And besides for an obvious taste for human flesh, he found that he could eat normal food as well- at least, the food he found in one of the nursing stations. It was a bit stale, but overall edible. As he neared the exit, he figured he might as well raid a nearby vending machine. Raising the blunt of the bat, he speared it into the glass casing, shattering it. What he was not expecting was for a high-pitched alarm to go off.

"_What the hell type of building rigs their vending machines?"_ He roared, angry at the attention that the alarm would bring him.

Sure enough, the creatures –the things that had been watching his progress all along- apparently got over their wariness of him and attacked in swarms. They were fast- faster than one would expect from things that looked so sickly. Connelly didn't even have time to think before they were upon him. They screeched as they grabbed for him, tearing at his clothes, at his flesh. Overwhelmed, he didn't even have time to swing at them with his bat. One of them- perhaps the leader of the pack, for he was the biggest- shoved himself forward to the front. His white eyes gleaming, he let out a wail before raking his fingers down the boy's cheek. Blood spurted out, yet the swarm suddenly hesitated, for less than a second, confused by the slightly infected scent they sensed through the sweetness.

This was all the time that the hunter needed. With an animalistic growl, he smashed the leader's head into the broken machine, its skull instantly imploding and smattering brains into the crowd. The stench of freshly drawn blood, infected or not, put the swarm into a frenzy. They began tearing at each other, diseased flesh easily sliding off bone, tendons snapping, muscles tearing as they began biting into each other like a school of starved sharks. Connelly, half dizzy from his fall and smell of bloodlust, let out a bloodcurdling screech before tearing into the crowd.

The only thing that mattered was to kill. Falling onto the closest one, he bit into its neck, crewing into its windpipe until blood filled its lungs and it stopped screaming. Tearing a good portion of its throat away, he continued to dig in with his teeth until they scraped bone. Snarling, he attached the next one, extended claws puncturing its ribcage. Forcing it to the ground, he tore at it, breaking and extracting rib bones as well as flesh. He would have continued if another hadn't tried to grab him, and he leapt at it, missing its throat and instead biting into its jaw, bones crunching. As he pulled back, half of its face came away. It let out a shriek of pain and he slashed his claws across its throat, his hypersensitive hearing vexed by the noise. Suddenly remembering his bat, he hefted it with slippery fingers, bashing into heads, into legs, into chests. Every time seemed too easy, the bones automatically giving way to metal.

At last they were all finished, either a victim of his bat or each other. Idly licking a claw, he glanced down and swore loudly, realizing that his once clean hoodie was now splattered in gore. It was a light color, too, so it especially stood out. Grumbling, he picked his way over to a restroom, where he tried in vain to wash it out. He worked quickly, in case more of the things came to avenge their brothers. When it was halfway decent and didn't look like it was going to get any better, he wrung it out until it was mildly damp before slipping it back on. He figured the sun would probably dry out the rest. He also washed the blood off of his face and neck, even daring to scrub his teeth with his finger. His claws, on the other hand, were practically begging for him to lick them clean.

Humming to himself, he snatched one last candy bar from the machine before stepping outside. Taking a bite out of it, he surveyed his surroundings, before pulling his hood up over his eyes, noting that he still hated sunlight. Then he ran, as fast as he could, leaping the fence in a single bound in an effort to get as far away from that place as possible. He never looked back once.

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**AN:** I tried to develop Connelly's personality a bit more in this chapter. Don't worry, the story will start to pick up soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Third**

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He had been traveling for three days now, and so far almost everything had left him alone. So far. He decided that sleeping high in the treetops was the best options, for although the "Infected" –for that's what they were called, according to the posters- could jump and climb, he could probably climb higher. As he was nearing a forest that bordered a swamp, this wasn't such an issue. The trees were quite high, and he was confident that he could climb one. Doubtless he was strong enough- he'd covered more ground than he'd thought even possible, hardly tiring at all. Unfortunately, this had taken a toll on his metabolism, and he was running extremely low on food. He'd have to search for some more soon, if the pangs in his stomach meant anything.

He had also taken to traveling by night and sleeping during the day. The sunlight was stinging his eyes too badly, and besides- he could see in the dark. On the first day of travel, there were many abandoned buildings around, which strangely enough held a remarkably few amount of the Infected. He had dropped almost immediately in one of them after fleeing the "hospital", although for some reason he could not fall asleep in the bed. Rather, he found himself crawling under it, ripping off the sheets and blankets to use as bedding. It felt weird, yet oddly comforting, despite the dust bunnies and groaning floorboards. He had felt secure.

He made sure to raid the house before leaving, but most of the food would either spoil quickly or was too heavy to be lugging around. He had had a hearty breakfast, though (nearly cleaning out the entire fridge), and was lucky enough to find a pistol and ammo in one of the drawers. He decided to take that with him, in case too many Infected attacked at once; he had been lucky at the hospital.

Yet by the end of the first day – or actually, night- he had run to the edge of town, straight into a wall. Literally, a huge, thick concrete wall stood in front of him, barbwire lining the top. It went as far as Connelly's eyes could see, and he didn't feel like walking all the way around to see where it ended. Most likely, it encircled the town.

Luckily, a roof of a nearby house had been close enough for him to attempt the jump. Getting to the roof had been no problem- he had made it to the second story window in one jump, and from there pushed himself up. The span from the roof to the wall was about fifteen feet across, including the barb wire. He doubted he'd want to land on that, either. Starting from the opposite end, he took a running jump and sprung from the roof, arms outstretched, almost flying through the air- only to violently get pulled back, as if tied to a rubber band.

Something had lashed itself around his torso, and was pulling him across the roof, his skin dragging against the tiles. It was thick and strong like a vise, pinning one of his arms to his sides. It was also prickling hot against his hypersensitive skin, burning to the touch. As he drew closer to its source, he let out a shudder of disgust- it was a _tongue_. A long, slimy tongue, belonging to an Infected. But this one was unlike the others, for it seemed taller, and cancerous bulbs of pus grew out of its face and claws, dripping and almost seeming to throb. Spores swarmed around the top of its head, whose source seemed t becoming from its mouth; as if to prove this, it let out a cough, before its tongue tightened on the hunter and it began tearing at him with its claws, snarling.

Letting out a defensive snarl of his own, Connelly fought back with his one remaining set of claws, tearing into the slimy, reeking flesh. Although slippery, it tore easily under attack, reeking blood splattering the boy's face. The Coughing Thing fought back, though his attacks were weaker, barely sinking into Connelly's flesh. What was left of the muscle continued to tighten, and soon he was seeing dark spots along his field of vision. Nevertheless, he continues to attack, until at last he severed the cord and rolled away from his attacker. Shrugging the heavy thing off of himself, he winced as his newly-freed arm flopped and prickled, numb and useless for the time being. Yet time was of the essence here, as his adversary had not given up yet. It lunged at him, and although the hunter tried to dodge the attack, he was already exhausted. Caught under the heavy bulk of the Smoker, he weakly tried to fend off its attacks, the spores stinging his eyes, his vision already dimming. It weight was crushing his ribs as he struggled to breathe, as even its weak attacks were starting to make a mark.

There was a sudden, territorial snarl, and the weight was abruptly lifted from his chest. Something else was attacking the Smoker now, tearing deeply into its flesh almost angrily, territorial screams bursting from its lips. It wore similar apparel to the boy, its hood pulled down over its face, hiding most of its feature. With a small whimper Connelly crawled away, unwilling to face the victor. He forced himself to muster enough strength to leap over the wall, adrenaline pounding through his blood. Yet the fastest escape couldn't have stopped him from glancing back, and he deeply regretted doing so. He had glimpsed the face under the hood, with the same red rings around its eyes, and just a hint of what seemed to be a smirk on its blood-stained lips.

((()))

Since that time, he had moved as quickly as possible, eager to get as far fucking away from that town as possible. He cursed himself for not thinking of using the gun, which had been at his hip the whole goddamn time. Perhaps if he had used it, the other hunter wouldn't have come. Connelly couldn't exactly place as to why he was so afraid of it, but the look it had given him had sent shivers down his spine.

Presently, he was standing at the base of a large tree in the middle of a forest, which bordered a swamp. He figured he could use his claws as anchors in order to climb to the lowest hanging branch, which wasn't that low at all- about twenty feet up. Staring at his hand, he willed his claws to extend themselves. He glared to no avail, and soon tried flexing his fingers, even mimicking the swipe of a cat. For ten agonizing minutes he tried every technique he could think of, all bearing no fruit. Letting out a low growl of frustration, he punched the trunk of the tree, which did nothing but send a shooting pain up his arm. Howling in pain, he clutched his fingers and took a deep breath. Obviously, he'd have to find another way.

Slipping off his shoes, he clenched the laces in his mouth and he bent his knees, springing up from the ground with all of his strength. He sailed upward in that one bound, easily catching himself onto the branch, his claws now blessedly extended once more. He moved more on instinct now, hopping from branch to branch with the agility of a cat, and sinking his claws into the trunk to hoist himself up. These movements were done thoughtlessly; Connelly caught his mind wandering more than once, and a particular careless move almost cost him his grip and had him plummet below.

Finally, he reached a suitable high with branches both sturdy and close enough that he could lie down across them without fear of slipping through the gaps. The need for rest was strong on his mind, overpowering even the now constant gnawing he felt in his stomach. He fell into a deep sleep almost instantly.

((()))

_She spotted him. Relief flooded her face for an instant before He was running running running with the rest of his pack, screaming at He ignored the squirming prey beneath him as he dug his claws deeper Blood spurted out, he sank his teeth Ripping, tearing, he brought his claws across its mouth again Mindlessly swallow oh god it tastes so good so good ohgodohgodohgod why Snap its bones Why won't it stop screaming why won't it stop screaming WhywontitstopstopstopstopSTOP-_

He woke immediately to the sound of a gunshot. His sensitive ears started to ring as he was startled out of his slumber, the daylight almost blindingly bright. With a hiss, he covered his eyes with his arm, clenching them shut as he pulled the hood over his face. Glancing downward, he saw a pair of men under his tree, carrying packs and what appeared to be shotguns. They were burly and held humorless expressions, as they looked upward, staring right back at him.

"Fuck, I missed 'im."

"Great job, Joe, yah retard," the other sneered, "now it's awake. Let me finish this, will yah?"

"I can do it!" Protested the one called Joe, once again aiming at Connelly. With a spasm of fear, the hunter quickly scuttled out of range, hopping down to a lower branch. His hunger pangs hurt worse than ever, reminding him it had been two days since he had last eaten.

"Shit, now it's going to attack."

"I _told_ you to let _me_ do it!"

"Will you shut the fuck up so I can finish this?"

Once again taking aim, Joe fired directly at the Infected, the bullet whizzing pass Connelly's ear. With a surprised yelp, the boy lost his grip on his branch and well down the rest of the way, painfully hitting the ground on his side before rolling into a defensive crouch, eyes narrowed in anger. The twosome couldn't help but snicker.

"What a clumsy Hunter," sneered the one still unnamed, grabbing the gun from Joe's grip. "I guess he deserves this-"

His sentence was cut short as Connelly pounced, knocking the man to the ground. Struggling against him, the man attempted to assault him with his fists, which the hunter carelessly knocked aside before slamming his head into the ground. A sickening crack was heard as blood and brains splattered onto the ground from the man's head. A pool of blood quickly formed, and Connelly's sense of smell kicked into hyperactive overdrive, his stomach roaring for food. The sound of a gun being loaded forced him to freeze, and slowly, he turned around to face the other Survivor, who held another gun in his hands. A sharp pain exploded in Connelly's shoulder before he had any time to react, and with a cry of pain he fell backwards onto the ground. Clutching his shoulder, he stared up into the human's fearful, yet determined eyes, and at the gun ready to shoot again. The pain was sending him reeling, yet he knew the words must be forced out.

"Do you think," snarled Connelly, "You can _please_ stop doing that, asshole?"

The split second of confusion and hesitation caused from the talking Infected was all that the hunter needed. With a lunge, the remaining human was down, the gun safely out of his grip. He could hear the frantically beating heart of the human under his claws, and smell of fear that surrounded him as the Survivor struggled under his grip. All that he remembered was his hunger, and all he could smell was the scent of human sweat as he forgot himself, sinking his teeth deep into his prey's throat. The human let out a gurgled scream before falling back, the dead weight heavily hitting the ground. Blood sprayed into his mouth and down his throat as the human heart beat its last, the taste sweet and intoxicating to him. _Maybe I just can't eat human flesh that's already been eaten_, he though, his teeth continuing to tear into Joe's throat as he ripped off a chunk of meat.

There was contentment as he swallowed for maybe a minute, before his stomach once again rejected his fill and was forced to expel it. Leaning over onto the grass, he let out a cough as the last of it left him. Apparently, he was still intolerant. Growling, he raked his claws down the copse's chest, disgusted at the useless, delicious meat. He hooked his thumb claw under the rib cage and thrust his hand upward, cracking fragile bones as blood splattered against his lips, nauseatingly tantalizing.

The rage was short-lasting. Connelly suddenly felt himself pinned to the ground, a figure leering over him. It had happened so fast that the pain in his shoulder hadn't registered until that moment, the exploding throbs numbing his mind. The figure above him grinned a familiar grin, and panic seized Connelly in its grip. Paralyzed in fear, he stared up at a hunter, a rabid one whose claws dug into his wrists. Gulping air in quick gasps, he braced himself for inevitable impact, its sharp claws raking down his throat and chest, quickly demolishing him as he himself had just done seconds earlier to the human.

Instead, it simply sat there patiently on top of him, as if waiting for Connelly to regain himself. His breath becoming slightly less erratic, his heart slowly beat him back to calmness. He started upward at it, and almost _familiar…_that same smirk as before, the hollow cheekbones, the dark green sweatshirt. Black bangs now hung out of his hood as he lay parallel over Connelly, victorious. It was the same hunter as before, the one which had saved him from the smoker. Tentatively, he let out a sniff.

"…You're like me," he said, surprised.

"Oh, very good," said the other, sarcastically, as if praising a slow child, "So you're not _completely_ useless."

Connelly let out a sharp snarl before pushing the other off of him and quickly spring up to full height. It sat in a crouch and stared up at him from beneath its hood, looking amused. The blonde felt loathing crawl along his veins, or perhaps it was simply testosterone- they were both territorial males, after all. The other, although clearly in a defensive posture, seemed almost relaxed. Clearly used to being the dominant and Alfa male, he non-chalantly licked a claw, while keeping an eye on the younger male out of the corner of his eye. Connelly immediately hated him and his smug attitude, this male's _ultimate_ certainty that he would be victorious over anyone else. Unable to take the silently glaring contest any longer, he snapped:

"I killed these two, didn't I? Didn't see you anywhere to _help_-"

"I wanted to see what you could do," he cut in smoothly, standing up into a slouch and stuffing his claws into his pockets. "Nice landing, by the way. Same par as a boomer."

Sensing that this was an insult, Connelly turned away. He didn't need this asshole. Showing his back turned out to be a mistake, and earned another pinning to the ground. Another burst of pain came from his injured shoulder, and it took all of his will not to cry out. He would show no weakness. He could feel the other hunter's hot breath in his ear, and the smirk that probably came with it. Connelly didn't really start to struggle until he felt his shirt being stripped off.

"Hey…_hey! What the fuck you-"_

"Oh, quit screaming like a little girl and sit still," the hunter purred, "You're still bleeding from that bullet wound. Do you want to die?"

In truth, he _had_ only raised both layers up to shoulder level to check the wound, but it still bothered Connelly excessively. To have another male act dominant over him was humiliating. It may be slightly bigger, but this wasn't a fair fight. He was _sure _he could win if attacking head on, instead of surprised and weakened, and the unsaid taunt from before about dominance was now being brought to action. And what made it worse was that it was _this _hunter, though he wasn't sure why- simply the thought of _this particular hunter _dominating him made his stomach twist in disgust. His claws, which had been let go so that the hunter could treat the wound, now sunk into the ground, gripping it. He could feel the blood rushing up to his face and flushing his torso out of shame. He wanted to die.

After fifteen agonizing minutes, it was over. Luckily, Joe had been as bad an aim as ever on his final shot, and so the bullet had barely penetrated. The other hunter had lazily ambled over to the still fresh meat and was now gorging himself, barely sparing his companion a glance. As if he were no longer of any importance. But curiosity got the best of him and Connelly quit his sulking and sat up, watching him.

"You can eat that?"

"You can't?" asked the other in surprise. He shook his head sadly. "Oh, my little pup, Isaak has _so_ much to teach you."

"Teach what? I'm intolerant," he replied with great ignition, his tone of voice indeed taking on the quality of a whining child. " And I'm not a fucking _pup-_"

Isaak merely ignored him and turned back to his meal. "Well," he said between mouthfuls, blood dripping down his chin, "you'll have to join my pack, in any case."

Connelly raised his eyebrow. "Pack?"

"Yes, that would be only me at the time being. Still, you're more helpless than a little human girl without a gun" –here he licked his lips at the thought, his eyes bearing down on the blonde- "so you'll need protection."

"No thanks."

The answer was unbearably blunt, an insult, the tone suggesting that the older male lacked competence and was a thing to be mocked. Nevertheless Isaak smiled, revealing a set of sharp teeth, although it didn't reach is eyes. "Hunters travel in packs," he said coolly.

Tidbits and flashbacks ran through his mind. He didn't want them to, didn't want to remember the blood running down his palms and the clawing and the screaming and _the look in her eyes when she-_

"Maybe I'm less of a hunter than you think," Connelly snapped, turning his back once more and sprinting away, agilely dodging and jumping over fallen logs and foliage. This time, Isaak didn't stop him.

(((())))

By the end of the week, Connelly had discovered that he could still eat animal flesh, such a deer. Deer were especially fun to hunt, and the hunter could still have the thrill of killing something. Isaak's taunts still rang in his ears about being helpless, and he was determined to prove him wrong, even if the guy _was_ a huge dick. The bullet wound had since healed, much quicker than it should have, and so nothing was really stopping him. He currently crouched in the bushes, perfectly still, waiting to catch a wandering doe. He hind claws curled in anticipation.

What he wasn't expecting was for something to ambush _him_ as he made a move to reveal himself, for a swarm of about twenty infected soon surrounded him. Remembering the pistol this time, he landed about seven headshots before running out of ammo, reeking, almost black blood spraying his face and hoodie. Swearing loudly, he ended up beating the rest to death with the gun, too impatient with their howls of hunger and gapping mouths to bother taking time to reload. The heavy piece of metal bashed into sick, weak flesh easily, sometimes sinking through half a body and needing to be pulled out, dragging still-beating organs with it. As the last one fell, he was about to finish up and lick his claws clean when he heard a gasp behind him. His senses hyper tense, he whirled around with a low snarl.

"That was awesome," the boy said, slinging his gun over his shoulder with a grin, "I was about to actually shoot you- no offence, but you're dressed mightily close to one of them crazy-legs- but you totally beat those mothers down! Reminds me of that time me an' my buddy Keith- but never you mind about that." The boy drew closer and stuck out his hand.

"I'm Ellis! Pleasure to meet."

**Xxxxxxxxxxxx**

Sorry about not updating in awhile –school and all- but I'll try to pick up the pace. Hope you enjoyed!

Edited for detail :p


	4. Chapter 4

**Fourth**

Xxxxxxxxxx

Connelly had luckily had enough foresight to keep his sneakers on before leaping out of the bushes. The shoes were by this time worse than useless to him, the rubber worn thin, the cloth falling apart and dirty, and the constant friction causing painful blisters on the sides and bottoms of his feet. He was planning on tossing them soon, as the calluses on his feet were so thick that he didn't even need them. But they had finally proven themselves to be useful, as his hind claws were fully out from his recent battle with the hoard. The shoes offered a good disguise, and it would have looked suspicious for him to be running around at dawn barefoot, anyway. His front claws were also out, but he made due with stuffing them in his hoodie pocket.

This was simply to draw off suspicion so that Connelly could make a clean kill. His last experience with survivors was still fresh in his mind, the wound on his shoulder, though mostly healed, still ached. Their purpose was to kill him, so he would have to kill them first. Simple. The fact that he could talk, unlike most hunters, was simply an extra advantage to him.

The survivor would have to be eliminated.

The human was obviously off guard, endlessly blabbing off about one thing or the other. His shotgun was loosely held over a t-shirt clad shoulder. It was clear that he was in shape, no doubt from working on a farm, or something like that. His accent certainly made Connelly think of that. Hell, he had a very slight southern twang himself, but it was nothing compared to this guy. His muscles seemed relaxed, for the most part, although there was slight tension in his neck, a sign that he was still on guard. Connelly took a very tiny step forward and to the left, in order to get into a better pouncing angle. The human didn't seem to notice.

The truly frightening feature was that as he talked, his figure became warped, his teeth elongating, his face and body becoming more angular, his eyes all but disappearing. Everything was tinged in red. Only the gun remained black, and shiny, and suddenly much too big and intimidating. As the human talked, his voice suddenly became too loud, and almost incomprehensible. The noise hurt. Connely wanted to rip out his tongue.

But then he stopped talking, and with a smile stepped forward, with his hand out. He introduced himself as "Ellis." The large stride had fucked up Connelly's angle, because now the human was too close. So close, in fact, that he could smell his sweat and the metal of the gun, and the hint of Tabasco sauce on his breath. But not fear. This survivor was confident. Connelly silently snorted in annoyance. He didn't memories to tell him that the stupid, confidant ones died easier.

Ellis was frowning now, and seemed a bit uncomfortable. Unsure. He glanced down at the outstretched hand. Oh. He wanted him to shake it and introduce himself. Talking would prove, at least to this guy, that he wasn't infected. That the hoodie was a coincidence. Well, he couldn't shake his hand, because his claws were still out. This wouldn't seem very polite, but luckily, Connelly wasn't a very polite person. With another wary glance at the hand, he grunted,

"Connelly."

Relief flooded Ellis's face. The elongated, red pointy mouth stretched. Ah, yes. He could talk. Nothing wrong with him, move along folks. Ellis shifted his gun to his other shoulder.

"Well, Conn'lly, I hope you don' mind me askin', but...are you by yerself?"

Isaak's smirking face briefly flashed through Connelly's mind, but he decided that that asshole obviously didn't count. He nodded.

"I am."

Ellis scratched the back of his head. Connelly raised one of his feet and used it to scratch the back of his leg, using this movement as an excuse to move back into position.

"Well, heck man, it sure is dangerous out here. I got a group close by, you wanna maybe join us for breakfast?"

Connelly let out a huge grin of pointy teeth. "I was just thinking the same thing," he purred.

He lunged.

Had this been another survivor, the hunter's claws would have quickly sunk into his chest cavity before the human had had any time to react, and half his organs would have been out before realizing that he should scream. But Ellis wasn't a normal survivor. If he had been, he wouldn't have still been alive. Even he didn't have enough time to move out of the way, his reflexes were fast enough that he was able to raise his gun to block the hunter's claws.

Connelly sneered and tried to knock the gun away with a swipe of his claws. This earned him the butt of the rifle being rammed into his stomach, and he went down with a choked gasp. The rifle butt came down again, but this time Connelly dodged it and pulled down the arm attached to it. Ellis went down with a grunt as he painfully landed on his side. As he tried to roll over, the hunter jammed him elbow hard into Ellis's throat, choking him and bring him down once more. With a victorious snarl, Connelly dug his claw deep into the shoulder of the struggling human, eager for fresh kill. Ellis weakly grabbed onto the hunter's garb in vain.

A flashlight beam pierced through the trees and the rapidly disappearing darkness. "Ellis?" Called an annoyed, almost nasally voice with a northeast accent. "Where the fuck are yah, kid?" The beam of light drew closer. Leaves crunched over heavy feet.

Connelly let out a deep growl of annoyance and released the human, disappearing into the trees on the opposite side of the clearing in one bound.

(((((((((((())))))))))))

He had not been more than ten minutes into the forest before Isaak appeared, lounging directly in front of him on an overturned log.

"Hello," he purred, a shit-eating grin splayed across his features.

Connelly let out a loud, enraged snarl, adrenaline still pounding through his veins.. "Fuck off." He immediately crouched into a defensive position, his eyes wary.

"Oh, come now, surely you aren't still mad about before?" Connelly let out a growl of warning as the other hunter casually strolled closer. "I brought you something," his voice taking a teasing tone to it.

The large hindquarter of a buck was dropped before the blond, its juices and blood still dripping, heat still radiating off of it. Connelly tried not to lick his lips. He was still hungry. But his wariness of Isaak won out, and he glared up at him.

"Just eat it," the older hunter intoned boredly. "I know you missed that deer before, and that scrawny human afterward. Pitiful. You have much to learn." Connelly sneered at him. "Well, do go on! Before it gets cold!"

Slowly lowering his head, and trying to keep his eye on the hunter, Connelly bit into the warm flesh. "I can hunt my own meat," he muttered between mouthfuls. "Fuckin' asshole…" But he had lost the edge in his voice.

Isaak watched him with some amusement. He stood there silently, waiting for his comrade to finish. When little but bones remained, he took off into the woods, with Connelly at his heels. The least he could do was be polite after that meal, the blond figured. Something the back of his mind tinged, as if something was wrong, but he ignored it.

(((((((())))))))

I was barely sunrise when they lay down to rest. Small shacks were apparently frequent around the swamp, and the one that Isaak had picked seemed particularly crappy. It contained a living room full of ripped and dusty furniture, a rusted out kitchen with no running water or gas, a laundry room with no washing machine, and a bedroom, where the two hunters currently resided. Isaak had claimed the space under the bed, which left Connelly with the small, cramped closet. Of course, there was plenty of bedding to be ripped from clothes, but he wasn't sure just how tightly he could curl himself up.

"You could always join me under the bed," Isaak had sarcastically answered to his complaints, flashing him his cocky grin.

Connelly had growled in response and stomped into his nest.

He was weary as the sun rose, and immediately felt his eyes grow heavy. Something tinged in the back of his mind that something was wrong again, but he didn't know just what…

'_Here' she smiled, holding up his present with a chubby hand, 'happy birthday!' he smiled, fingering the She screamed, small hand clutched over the wound that A set of teeth gnashed over Oh god get it get it get back those things in the white suits Get it back from them kill them kill them KILL THEM_

He awoke with a start, hand reaching to clutch at his throat. His hand only met fabric. Now fully awake, his hand desperately searched for the thing that wasn't there. Frantically, he searched for it, pawing through the ripped clothes. It was gone, though. He knew it was gone. That was what had been bothering him. Bursting through the closet doors, he leapt over to the bed and started violently shaking the body under it.

"Isaak! Isaak!" he hissed, "Wake up. _Wake up god dammit this is serious."_

The raven hair let out a snarl at being woken up, his teeth bared, but his countenance quickly turned playful. "Change your mind?" Connelly let out a growl and pushed him.

"We have to go."

"What?"

"_Now."_

Isaak let out a lazy yawn. "And why is that?"

Connelly let out a shaky breath. "My necklace. The one with the cross? It's gone."

((((((((((((((((((())))))))))))))))

Some half mile away, a group of survivors finished their breakfast around their campfire.

"I _still_ think you're shitting me," said the one in the white suit. "A talking hunter? No way."

"Ahm tellin' you, it's true," replied the other, "An' he wouldn't ah run off when he heard you if it were a regular hunter, neither. This one got some sense."

The black woman stifling the flames, the only female in the group, looked up with some concern. "Think he'll follow us, then?"

Ellis fingered the silver cross between his fingers. "I don't know," he said slowly, after some thought.

"Depends how stupid he is…and how much he wants this here fine piece back."

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Yay, nother chapter! And don't worry, you'll have more of Ellis and the rest of the gang from now on. Connelly's point of view, by the way, (when looking at Ellis) is taken from the official l4d Valve comic, found on their website.


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